i wrote you a relentless slew of love letters and gave you all my artwork.  you left them all scattered haphazardly throughout your room, never once bothering to keep them safe.  you never valued anything i gave to you, even in knowing they were all extensions of my tumultuous, uncontainable love for you.  i stopped giving you those things made of my love because you tread thoughtlessly upon them with your bare feet, underwriting my creations.
2. you said i was worth the work, but you never put it in.  i showed you the trainwreck of scars laddering my skin, the bones protruding from beneath, told you about how i swallowed all those pills wishing for a quick ending, then starved for years because i thought i deserved death slow & painful.  i told you i hated myself.  i told you i felt unlovable.  i cried in front of you, exposed in a splendor of shame & total vulnerability, & all you had in response was an awkward little laugh & “well, you don’t look too skinny” you left for work & i cried my heart out.  i don’t blame you for being foolish & insensitive, but regardless, *******.  
3. when you are high, which is always, you become replaceable with any other body.  you repeat the same stories, tell the same jokes, expect me to find you relentlessly charming. you zone in on youtube videos that are not ******* funny, stop laughing at them, it is all so pointless. you are redolent with intellect wasted away on the drugs, mere chemicals that entertain you far more than i ever did.
4. the moment you took me for granted, i knew i was going to walk away.
5. the night after my sister tried to **** herself, after i sought you out for comfort & all you gave me was apathy, i traced a razor across my skin, contemplating her decision.  i didn’t tell you, but i’m not sorry.
6. you always felt the need to remind me i was free, but i already knew.  i am my own person.  this is something i have always known.  you never had the power to influence the way i lived my life or the people i loved & still love & will always love.  don’t ever think you had that power over me.
7. don’t ever tell me i do not need to change.  there are things i have to fix about myself.  not all of my flaws are beautiful.  do not romanticize me.  do not turn me into some idea you have of me in your head.  i am not a beautiful and heavenly creature, I am a human girl & i have made mistakes.
8. i care about you, but i care about myself more, & this is why i am walking away.
9. the damage is irreparable.  i wasted my time believing you could love me the way i wanted you to, but you can’t & you won’t & that is okay.  i do not resent you for it, but you need to let me go.  i am not your dream girl & you are not for me. do not cling to the illusion of who you think i am.  let me go.
10. i am leaving because this time, i don’t just think i deserve better.  i know.

it's so strange how fear strikes
gently at first, like morphine
it dribbles through you, you bottom out.

and then when you are dry and cracked
it soaks into you like gasoline to driftwood
the sound of the birds become dull
and then you panic about your panic
because the birds see everything and you need them
when the wild beasts come
need them to listen, so you can sit still and hum--mmmmmm
dear forest, can you block the taste out of my mouth
block the sound of talk radio voices whirring through the channels
pineal staticky as a black hole, so you say
vacuum packed emotions cemented in nothing
compressed trash dumped into the same landfill
and suddenly your cup runeth over with the poisoned caviar
and you ignored that ******* caveat when you were young
the bed you make you lay in it, you dug your grave and then fought them
all the way in, i guess that deserves another personality pathology

words and pictures and angels that george carlin doesn't believe in
but i don't mind i still mostly agree with him
except quietly poking that thought to the back of my mind
to recirculate and well i don't want to forget it in too much time
but angels, there are some things you can't describe to people
that eventually make sense, and some that make you stop
before you start because, you have to see quezacoatl to believe it
and i understood after all those nights of john darnielle
soft voice meant to carry, snakes, destruction, and ripe plums

there are some little devils and some little angels
they don't need a medium, just an invitation
a little thought, blind intention, unconscious manifestation
and only then can they live
hocus pocus **** whatever,
illuminati is distraction,
these aren't legends they are presently presence
essence and breathlessness and aristocrat embezzlement
i'm not worried about the devil
i'm worried about the people who crouch to his level
leveraging him on their shoulders
parasitic loaner, bankers thirsty to sell us
everyone's just looking at miley cyrus
welcome to america, this is a ******* mess
i might overnight some toy blocks by UPS to congress
if they learn to count 1 2 3 but in millions
perhaps it'll dawn on them how much ******* debt we're in

so some nights i let the crackle overwhelm
and sink into the consciousness
and let the shadows prowl around
because pajama sam keeps demanding
not to be afraid of the dark now, for my art, for my heart
there's a world in there and sometimes you have to fall
to know what's life when you come up for air and see
this show is so debonair i can barely bare to read the latest
it's all so plasmatic, phlegm and smoke and paper
burning cities, smoke and mirrors, moving more paper
the only way to act outside the script is to stop acting
and it's the roughest road to choose
but it'll be worth it when you can actually rest in peace without dues
reality isn't real is it, blue collar is another word for slave isn't it
9 - 5 is another expression for consume, a check goes in a box
but we assume it's fair work for pay
we are each a stock, worth about as much as a tea bag
to a party of executives in hot water

and the man outside keeps screaming
something evil is hidden in the depths of the news page
slipping through slack fingered open mouthed people
somehow we're still clueless in the information age
we see it, we read it, we feel it, helpless
we sit in our desk chairs and wonder what next
and the devil sits in our ears whispering don't worry
i know what you're expecting of me
i'm coming, if that is what you all collectively believe

i turn to quezacoatl and all he will murmur
is
what are you going to do about it
the collective has power
waiting for a fateful hour like
a wave puffing up it's chest
oppressed does not mean suppressed
and politics are liar language
money is bluffing to keep us thinking we're nothing
once you've seen what hides in the dark
the light glows brighter in comparison
keeps you safe in the early hours of morning
when you listen

we are the change
we are absolutely everything

time no time reveals
     in neverland we grow 
          feeling tasting loving
          grasping dreaming falling
       to surrender in our turn    
     through stargates  
  death and birth

i am not a poet.
poets are the sad ones awake at three a.m. mourning over the sad loss of their lover.
poets are the ones yearning to love, and to be loved the same.
poets are beautiful, dangerous and tragic. every word that they speak is a dagger in your side, the slow knife that cuts the deepest.
poets are the ones who realise the power of words, so they choose them carefully (they know they could be choosing their fate).
poets know that the absence of words is just as important as the presence.
poets are born, not crafted.
maybe i am a poet.

we waited for nightfall before making love to the moon,
smoking hand-rolled cigarettes in the breathless aftermath, a
poetry of flesh on flesh & your bright eyes on mine.  i didn’t apologize for the asymmetry of my ******* or the silver scars laddering my wrists,
the cartography of a suicide left incomplete.  you look at me  like i am something worth loving
& all i need are your grasping palms, your shameless love, your
beautiful heart beating against my chattering bones.  we erupt into a star-stained sky,
explosions of everything trapped within us spinning into the stoic dark.  you infinities of beautiful & i give you my all.

we smoke hand-rolled cigarettes just to be awash in the splendor of it all, but i don’t tell you i like to feel the disintegration of my organs in a thick cloud of menthol & formaldehyde.  i don’t tell you i still press fingers to the back of my raw-skinned throat, just to know i haven’t lost the courage.  without new scars healing on my delicate wrists & sweet-sour pills dancing in my blood, i am nothing worth remembering.  every night, i fall asleep with my cat snuggled warm against my clattering bones & measure my stomach with trembling palms, afraid that i have suddenly erupted from my wispy shape into something breathing.  a girl of no substance, dark matter where flesh once lived, hollowed perfection in the stiff arrangement of limbs on a crooked frame.  you kiss my knees goodnight; we don’t mention you are sad again or that i am becoming a skeleton.  your teeth are serrated, sweet against my neck.  your hips are songbirds, dipping into my belly, begging with a lust i can’t feel anymore.  your body is heavy & all i want is sleep, the sweetness of a pillow beneath my icy cheek, the passage of time without the constant obsession over infinite sins.  i never promised you a rose garden, so welcome in the monster.